


The Have Nots

by veryspecialone



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Pretty Little Liars
Genre: Crossover, F/M, I can ship Spencer Hastings with anyone, I can ship Steve Rogers with anyone, I took this to its natural conclusion, yes I went there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 02:49:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3102737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veryspecialone/pseuds/veryspecialone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a skyscraper in downtown Manhattan with an enormous, gleaming "A" on the side of it. Maybe Spencer Hastings should have known better than to ever set foot inside, but nobody's perfect, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Have Nots

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the song of the same name by Danielle Ate the Sandwich. Beta'd by the ever-lovely openhearts who will always indulge my crossover feels.

The last time Spencer Hastings was in New York City, a girl ended up dead.

Girls used to end up dead around Spencer Hastings a lot, she supposes.

\---

Spencer squints into the early morning light as she ascends out of the subway. She’s meant to walk two and a half blocks east from here to get to the firm, but the sun is bouncing off of every mirrored building surrounding her and it’s hard to judge which direction it’s actually coming from. She checks her watch, finding to her satisfaction that she still has a full forty minutes before she has to be at her internship orientation. That’s twice as much time as she’ll need to locate the correct building and find her way upstairs according to the morning schedule she’d sketched out the night before, so she has time for a cup of coffee. Spencer eyes the Starbucks across the street with a line leading out the door, then turns on her heel and heads into the shiny office building directly behind her.

As she’d suspected she might, she finds a coffee cart in the lobby with only a few people waiting. Spencer triumphantly joins the back of the line and pulls out her phone, opening up her maps app to surreptitiously discern which way she should turn when she exits back out onto the street, so as not to look like some tourist.

There’s only one person left in front of Spencer when she slips her phone back into the pocket of her blazer, confident she knows where she’s going -- cross the street, turn left, one block, then right -- and looks out towards the street. She amusedly watches a few people passing by the building who appear to glance inside; since the floor-to-ceiling lobby windows, like all the others in this area, are mirrored on the outside, she knows they’re trying to sneakily check out their own reflections.

There are two exceptions to the sneakiness in the short time that Spencer is watching. One is a man, probably in his late thirties to early forties, wearing a three-piece suit that Spencer can tell cost more than even her father’s best suit, and that’s saying something. The man comes to a full stop in front of the window, apparently not caring that everyone can see him considering his reflection, and makes a minute adjustment to his styled, gelled hair before giving himself a roguish wink. Spencer stifles a giggle as the man strolls off with another, younger man in his wake who looks equally entertained.

Spencer’s giggle then dies in her throat as she turns her attention to the second person who stops to make full use of the window’s reflective properties. It’s a young woman, quite tiny even in her towering high heels. She’s wearing sunglasses and has a scarf tied over her dark hair like a movie star from the ‘40s. As Spencer watches, the woman pulls a small golden tube from her handbag and touches up her bright red lipstick, smiling as she does so, like she finds the sensation deeply satisfying. After she tucks the lipstick back into her purse, she adjusts the knot on her scarf and the jacket of her slim-fitting pantsuit before striding onwards.

Spencer barely hears the man at the coffee cart asking “Miss? Did you want something?” and the impatient throat-clearing of the waiting customers behind her. She thinks she manages to choke out a “No thank you, never mind” as her feet carry her towards the front door of the building as if on casters. Never let it be said that Hastings aren’t polite, even in the midst of emotional crisis.

Spencer Hastings, as a rule, does not generally forget faces. She can still identify every President of the United States by portrait alone, and about half of the Vice Presidents. But Spencer’s extensive memory isn’t required in this case, because even if she had the facial recognition ability of a goldfish she would still know Mona Vanderwaal anywhere.

That is, if Mona Vanderwaal hadn’t been dead for well over three years.

Spencer can see the familiar silhouette just about to disappear around the corner as she reaches the street. Sparing no more than a fleeting thought that her internship, the one her advisor worked so hard to get her, the one her parents are so proud of her for, is in the opposite direction, Spencer follows.

It isn’t as if she hasn’t ever known anyone that’s come back from the dead, Spencer reasons to herself as she slows down to peer around the corner before plowing ahead. At this point, doing so in her hometown is so commonplace it’s practically a cliché. Still, a little part of Spencer can’t believe what her eyes are telling her she’s seen...another feeling she’s all too familiar with.

Mona or Not-Mona or whoever she is turns sharply and enters yet another mirror-faced building. Spencer holds back for several seconds before following her through the doors, trying to look like she belongs there and appear nonchalant and casual at the same time. Mona is nowhere to be seen. There’s a bank of several elevators to Spencer’s right; all of the doors are closed and none of them have displays to show which floor that elevator is currently on. Spencer shuffles her feet for a moment until she hears a loud throat-clearing noise and turns to her right to see a gruff-looking security guard.

“Can I help you?” he says, sounding not at all helpful.

“I, uh,” lies Spencer, “was just hoping there would be a coffee cart in here. You know, beat the Starbucks line.”

“Right,” says the guard skeptically. “Canteen is for employees only. You don’t got an appointment?”

“...No.”

“Then have a nice day,” he says pointedly. Spencer hesitates and he sighs, adding, “There’s a cafe around the corner if you’re hopin’ to get a glimpse of the big guy. This early, you might still get a spot outside.”

Spencer nods despite having no idea what he’s talking about and quickly makes her exit. She thinks she hears him mutter “tourists” as the door swings shut behind her. When she hits the street she looks up at the building behind her and laughs dryly, suddenly understanding. The angle is too steep to see much detail from right next to the skyscraper, but the asymmetrical architecture is unmistakable and even from here she can just make out the giant, gleaming “A” that adorns the side of the building near the top. Its official name is still Stark Tower, but everyone Spencer has ever heard talk about it calls it Avengers Tower, both because of that huge “A” and because it’s rumored to be the home of Tony Stark and his team of superheroes.

Spencer’s last doubt dissolves: of course it was Mona Vanderwaal walking into Avengers Tower. Of _course_.

\---

She never does make it to her internship orientation.


End file.
